A shot...at respect

I’ve never been one of those parents for whom Respect equated to Heart Stopping Gut Clenching Bowel Moving Fear. I found that I felt that way, much of my childhood - no, wait, that would be all of my childhood, and a good deal of my walking adult life. My mother, for example, can inspire, with merely a particular ring of the phone the kind of damp palm, dry mouth, gritty eyed fear that most folks feel when facing, say, a rampaging bull, or really irritated king cobra.

Oddly enough, I’m not the one quaking in my boots this time around, I’m the one inspiring this sort of amazingly attention grabbing fear. Hell. If I’d known how well this worked earlier with Fox, I might just have employed slightly more of it. I stress the slightly - as I still have the occassional nightmare including quite vivid images of my childhood, obviously, I’m not aiming to Scar Him For Life, just, you know, knock him on his ass a time or two.

This past Tuesday, we had football practice (as we do every Tuesday, lest you think we’ve been slacking off!) and somehow, in the midst of some fancy footwork play they were teaching the boys, one of them grabbed Fox as he bolted past, leaving other boys littered on the field in his wake, like so much unwanted seaweed behind an Evenrude. I was summarily pleased. The lovely parent next to me, S, a dad, was equally pleased, which means, I was watching the right thing for a change. (I know! I was shocked I got it right too!!) Anyway. Someone grabbed his ankle, a Great Twisting occurred, and the swollen, slightly blue offending limb was carried off the field, directly to the passenger side of the car, where I waited with ice pack, and baying dog - who was baying at me, doing the I’m Being Eaten Alive By Misquito’s Dance. I’m still unsure if it was bays of sympathy, embarrassed horror that her mother would do something like that, or glee, that I might finally look like her prancing around chasing bugs.

It’s not nearly as cute as the AARRGGGGHHH, There Are Bees Here! Dance, but whatever. I can’t be adorable all the time.

This was Tuesday. Wednesday, I cut him some slack, wrapped the ankle, slipped on the Crocs, which is not supposed to wear, called the nurse to update, and happily went off to the office. Thursday provided another repeat of the I’m In Agony wailing and gnashing of teeth; and Friday, after a mutinous morning attempting to get out the door early (I needed to be in Holyoke by 9, its a 56 mile trip) and wrestle Fox into a shoe, I finally threw his wailing backside in the car, called the pediatrician, hauled ass to Holyoke, left him sulking in an office for a whopping total of 12.7 minutes, as we arrived at 13 minutes til 10.

I thought seriously, I might rip off his leg myself.

Then, it occured to me, I’d throught the same thing with his arm, and the damn thing was broken.

Christ.

I made an appointment to see Dr. Z, who thought maybe, it was fractured (great. just great. another horrendous mommy trophy being sent to my door), and summarily sent us across town, to get x-rays. A very lovely x-ray tech took us back, snapped about 6 shots of the foot and ankle, thankfully took in stride Fox’s matchmaking attempts, ignored the heat flooding my face, (he was married!) and ended up telling me: it’s not broken.

It’s not even sprained.

It’s not even bruised all that much.

I’m told to call Dr. Z’s office after 2, for “recommendations”. Fox stands right next to me, but thanks to cleverly turning down the volume, he does not hear the nurse tell me where to get him a walking boot cast, and matching crutches, if I really think he’s hurting that much; that maybe, it’s broken, but no one can see it on x-ray, blah blah blah.

I hung up and told quite possibly the biggest whopper of my entire parenting career:

“If that ankle is not feeling better by tomorrow, in time for the game at the very latest, Dr. Z said we are going to get a cortisone shot. It involves a foot long needle, about the width of a strand of spaghetti, and not only does it burn going in, but hurts for hours following.”

Well. I’ll be damned. (do note the sarcasm dripping off that statement)

It felt just fine about a nanosecond after that bomb.

Played on Saturday. Not only did he manage the fancy footwork thing, he sacked the quarterback, stripped him of the ball, and ran it for a gain of 15 yards. He was in the entire game, first as the left gaurd, and then, as some tackle-heavy lineman, or linebacker, or whatever.

He felt fine enough to do his tippy-toed dance of victory after all really good plays, climbed a fence, jumped out of a tree, and took his skate board for a hair-raising trip down our big hill.

Too bad they don’t make a rolicking big shot for snotty backchat, eye rolling, and the whole host of newly employed 7 year old tactics he has down pat, to turn me from my usual self into my very own version of The Fish Mongers Wife